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第33章

the friendly road(友好的路)-第33章

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the roadway; I said: 

     〃Stranger; let's sit down and have a bite of luncheon。〃 

     He began to expostulate; said he was expected in Kilburn。 

     〃Oh; I've plenty for two;〃 I said; 〃and I can say; at least; that I am a 

firm believer in cooperation。 

     Without   more   urging   he   followed   me   into   the   woods;   where   we   sat 

down comfortably under a tree。 

     Now; when I take a fine thick sandwich out of my bag; I always feel 

like making it a polite bow; and before I bite into a big brown doughnut; I 

am tempted to say; 〃By your leave; madam;〃 and as for MINCE PIE 

Beau   Brummel   himself   could   not   outdo   me   in   respectful   consideration。 

But Bill Hahn neither saw; nor smelled; nor; I think; tasted Mrs。 Ransome's 

cookery。 As soon as we sat down he began talking。 From time to time he 

would   reach   out   for   another   sandwich   or   doughnut   or   pickle   (without 

knowing in the least which he was getting); and when that was gone some 

reflex   impulse   caused   him   to   reach   out   for   some   more。   When   the   last 

crumb of our lunch had disappeared Bill Hahn still reached out。 His hand 

groped absently about; and coming in contact with no more doughnuts or 

pickles   he   withdrew   itand   did   not   know;   I   think;   that   the   meal   was 

finished。 (Confidentially; I have speculated on what might have happened 

if the supply had been unlimited!) 

     But that was Bill Hahn。 Once started on his talk; he never thought of 

food or clothing or shelter; but his eyes glowed; his face lighted up with a 

strange   effulgence;   and   he   quite   lost   himself   upon   the   tide   of   his   own 

oratory。 I saw him afterward by a flare…light at the centre of a great crowd 

of men and womenbut that is getting ahead of my story。 

     His talk bristled with such words as 〃capitalism;〃 〃proletariat;〃 〃class… 

consciousness〃and   he   spoke   with   fluency   of   〃economic   determinism〃 



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and   〃syndicalism。〃   It   was   quite   wonderful!   And   from   time   to   time;   he 

would bring in a smashing quotation from Aristotle; Napoleon; Karl Marx; 

or Eugene V。 Debs; giving them all equal value; and he cited statistics!oh; 

marvellous statistics; that never were on sea or land。 

     Once he was so swept away by his own eloquence that he sprang to his 

feet and; raising one hand high above his head (quite unconscious that he 

was holding up a dill pickle); he worked through one of his most thrilling 

periods。 

     Yes; I laughed; and yet there was so brave a simplicity about this odd; 

absurd little man that what I laughed at was only his outward appearance 

(and   that   he   himself   had   no   care   for);   and   all   the   time   I   felt   a   growing 

respect   and   admiration   for   him。   He   was   not   only   sincere;   but   he   was 

genuinely      simplea    much     higher    virtue;   as  Fenelon     says。   For   while 

sincere people do not aim at appearing anything but what they are; they 

are always in fear of passing for something they are not。 They are forever 

thinking   about   themselves;   weighing   all   their   words   and   thoughts   and 

dwelling upon what they have done; in the fear of having done too much 

or too little; whereas simplicity; as Fenelon says; is an uprightness of soul 

which has ceased wholly to dwell upon itself or its actions。 Thus there are 

plenty of sincere folk in the world but few who are simple。 

     Well; the longer he talked; the less interested I was in what he said and 

the more fascinated I became in what he was。 I felt a wistful interest in 

him: and I wanted to know what way he took to purge himself of himself。 

I   think   if   I   had   been   in   that   group   nineteen   hundred   years   ago;   which 

surrounded the beggar who was born blind; but whose anointed eyes now 

looked   out   upon   glories   of   the   world;   I   should   have   been   among   the 

questioners: 

     〃What did he to thee? How opened he thine eyes?〃 

     I   tried   ineffectually   several   times   to   break   the   swift   current   of   his 

oratory and finally succeeded (when he paused a moment to finish off a bit 

of pie crust)。 

     〃You must have seen some hard experiences in your life;〃 I said。 

     〃That I have;〃 responded Bill Hahn; 〃the capitalistic system〃 



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     〃Did you ever work in the mills yourself?〃 I interrupted hastily。 

     〃Boy and man;〃 said Bill Hahn; 〃I worked in that hell for thirty…two 

yearsThe class…conscious proletariat have only to exert themselves〃 

     〃And your wife; did she work tooand your sons and daughters?〃 

     A spasm of pain crossed his face。 

     〃My daughter?〃 he said。 〃They killed her in the mills。〃 

     It was appallingthe dead level of the tone in which he uttered those 

wordsthe monotone of an emotion long ago burned out; and yet leaving 

frightful scars。 

     〃My friend!〃 I exclaimed; and I could not help laying my hand on his 

arm。 

     I had the feeling I often have with troubled childrenan indescribable 

pity that they have had to pass through the valley of the shadow; and I not 

there to take them by the hand。 

     〃And     was   thisyour    daughterwhat      brought     you   to  your   present 

belief?〃 

     〃No;〃 said he; 〃oh; no。 I was a Socialist; as you might say; from youth 

up。 That is; I called myself a Socialist; but; comrade; I've learned this here 

truth: that it ain't of so much importance that you possess a belief; as that 

the belief possess you。 Do you understand?〃 

     〃I think;〃 said I; 〃that I understand。〃 

     Well; he told me his story; mostly in a curious; dull; detached wayas 

though   he   were   speaking   of   some   third   person   in   whom   he   felt   only   a 

brotherly   interest;   but   from   time   to   time   some   incident   or   observation 

would   flame   up   out   of   the   narrative;   like   the   opening   of   the   door   of   a 

molten pitso that the glare hurt one!and then the story would die back 

again into quiet narrative。 

     Like most working people he had never lived in the twentieth century 

at all。 He was still in the feudal age; and his whole life had been a blind 

and ceaseless struggle for the bare necessaries of life; broken from time to 

time by fierce irregular wars called strikes。 He had never known anything 

of a real self…governing commonwealth; and such progress as he and his 

kind had made was never the result of their citizenship; of their powers as 



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voters; but grew out of the explosive and ragged upheavals; of their own 

half…organized societies and unions。 

     It   was   against   the   〃black people〃   he   said;   that   he   was   first   on   strike 

back   in   the   early   nineties。   He   told   me   all   about   it;   how   he   had   been 

working in   the   mills   pretty  comfortablyhe   was   young   and   strong   then; 

with a fine growing family and a small home of his own。 

     〃It was as pretty a place as you would want to see;〃 he said; 〃we grew 

cabbages   and   onions   and   turnipseverything   grew   fine!in   the   garden 

behind the house。〃 

     And then the 〃black people〃 began to come in; little by little at first; 

and then by the carload。 By the 〃black people〃 he meant the people from 

Southern Europe; he called them 〃hordes〃〃hordes and hordes of 'em〃 

Italians mostly; and they began getting into the mills and underbidding for 

the   jobs;   so  that   wages    slowly   went    down     and   at  the  same    time   the

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